


By The Firelight

by azziraphale



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Child Abuse, Developing Relationship, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Vietnam War, War, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-03 22:42:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17886515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azziraphale/pseuds/azziraphale
Summary: They share a long look, their lips still tilted in small, secret smiles.“I’m Dave.” He extends an open palm, skin callous but inviting. Klaus reciprocates with a clap of his own hand against his.“Klaus.” He tilts forward as the bus jolts, trundling them away to disaster. The briefcase knocks against the heel of his boot, but Klaus absentmindedly nudges it aside.The five significant times Klaus spoke to Dave. The one time he never will again.Or, how they fell in love.





	1. Chapter 1

_1._

Klaus is many things, but one notable characteristic among those many things is unassuming. Yes, he may have spontaneously stolen the chunky looking briefcase as he hightailed out of the motel. Is it for a good cause? Well, depends what you define as good. It’s good enough for him, at least. Good enough to let him sleep at night. To make him forget whatever the hell the past few days had been. He jumps on the first bus he sees, desperate to get away from the immediate vicinity, and plunks himself down onto a seat. His muscles are tired, and they’re the sort of tired that sinks right down to his bones. He feels it everywhere; the effect of being strapped onto a seat for days only to be running, crawling, climbing for his life immediately after. What can he say? Klaus’ life is nothing if not eventful.

The woman sitting across from him shoots him a questioning look as he lets out a much earned groan and stretches his limbs. That’s okay. Klaus can’t just assume that any person would understand what it felt like to be kidnapped from your own house clad in nothing but a towel, only to be interrogated, choked, beaten, and waterboarded by time travelling agents. That’s fine. Not everyone has that luxury. Klaus wouldn’t call himself a relatable man.

Now, for what really matters. He peers down at the sleek, black edges of the briefcase. What would time travelling agents have in their travel packs? Surely something worth thousands? Some alien weapons that Klaus could convince a local geek to pay hundreds for? Jewelry? Well, neither one of them seem very fashionable. Perhaps some money? How else would they pay for human services? Klaus decides to put an end to the guessing and open it right there and then. He only hopes that it wouldn’t be anything too flashy- he would hate having his treasure ogled by fellow commuters. Klaus rubs his hands together and unlatches the locks on the briefcase-

Only to be greeted by the staunchy air of sweaty bodies, piled on with strong waves of humid air and rows of what seemed like rectangular shapes in the dark. Suddenly, he isn't on the bus anymore. Not with the catty old woman sitting across from him. No, in fact, he was sprawled out on the floor, the clunky rectangular suitcase still cradled in his arms like it was never opened, the towel around his waist the only thing separating his ass from the humid earth. He pushes himself upright, squinting as his eyes fought to adjust to the darkness. It took him a while to notice that the heat wasn’t just coming from the earth, or the bodies, but it was from the opened tent flaps, the hot wind filtering in. This is definitely not anywhere _near_ the city. Especially not with the aggressive propelling of something that sounded like a plane, but _not_ _quite_ a plane, whirring just directly above his head.

“ _Damn it_.” he hisses.

A face comes to view. A very nice face at that. There’s a man sitting upright on the bed in front of him, startled from sleep, probably because of Klaus. His brunette hair is plastered haphazardly on his forehead with sweat, glistening the same way his dog tag is from the moonlight that streams in from the opening. It rests against his toned stomach, rising and falling with the exertion of breathing in the heavy air. Well, that and the fact that he was just startled awake. His angular face, strong features with delicate proportions, looks at him with squinty-eyed confusion, not yet blinking away the sleep. Klaus mimics the tilt of his head, his eyebrows furrowed with thought. And okay, maybe he’s just enjoying the view.

He’s about to say something when a deafening explosion sounds right outside their tent. At once, the previously stagnant surroundings lurch into movement, pulled to motion by the yells of ‘incoming’ and other curses spluttered by the soldiers. They’re strapping on garments like they were born for that one purpose, pulling pants up and tightening vests with a single-minded concentration.

“You got mud in your ears, boy? Get dressed!”

“No I’m- I’m not-”

“War’s not gonna wait for you to get pretty!” he thunders, a rifle already gripped in his hands. He turns to another soldier. “Chaz, get this man operational. And get him a pair of pants! Let’s go!”

Well, at least the yelling and the taunting is something he’s used to. Klaus is handed a pair of pants, then a hard bulk of a helmet is gently placed on his head. His hands are shaking as he pulls the clothes on, not quite mentally or physically recovered from the whole Hazel-Cha Cha segment of the day before another traumatising event is thrusted right into his face again. So is the life of Klaus Hargreeves, he laments.

Not long after, the soldiers are packed into a lurching bus, not dissimilar to sardines. Men of all ages, of all builds, are scattered around the vehicle, their bodies tilting with the sways of the bus as it trundles through potholes and jutting rocks. They are all clad in army wear and sweat, splatters of camouflage green and padded vests and clunky helmets. Klaus regards that the stifling heat, in addition of exuding from their bodies, are also coming from the windows. It’s a foreign climate, and so is the view. A lot of ochre. A lot of green. None of the usual concrete jungle he’s used to. Where exactly is he?

A hand gingerly touches his shoulder. Klaus turns around, and is met with the first face he saw at dawn. The man had walked carefully down the bus’ aisle, hanging onto the backrests of passing seats, and takes the row just beside him. He’s smiling.

“Hey. You just get in the country?”

“Oh, uh-” the man looks at him expectantly, eyes kind and soft. Klaus swallows. “Yeah.”

He laughs at his tentative response, and Klaus feels himself following suit. The soldier’s laugh is contagious, he finds.

“Shit’s crazy, I know.” He shrugs. Klaus hums in agreement. If only he knew how crazy shit can actually get. “You’ll adjust.”

Klaus nodded. The words are warm and reassuring, in the midst of the clamour around them. Overhead, he could still hear the muted roars of what turned out to be helicopters. He barely notices them anymore, regarded as just another frantic addition to the background noise. The soldier is right. He’ll adjust, given that Klaus actually stays. If logic follows, the briefcase that took him here could surely can transport him back. Obviously, there are more important things to worry about than the past. Isn't he meddling with history? At least, that’s what Luther would tell him if he was here. What about the apocalypse? What about Five?

They share a long look, their lips still tilted in small, secret smiles.

“I’m Dave.” He extends an open palm, skin callous but inviting. Klaus reciprocates with a clap of his own hand against his.

“Klaus.” He tilts forward as the bus jolts, trundling them away to disaster. The briefcase knocks against the heel of his boot, but Klaus absentmindedly nudges it aside.

He’ll adjust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so basically this fic is just five things that i headcanoned to have happened between klaus and dave during their time in the war, eventually leading to dave's death. (excluding the first chapter, which is how they met). it'll get a little sweet. it'll get a little sad. ideally angsty. we'll see how it goes.
> 
> hit me up on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/klauzoleum)


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Klaus doesn’t know what this is.

This. _It_ . The tension between him and Dave. They share stolen glances, inward smiles, flirtatious jokes. When the sun hits their faces in the field where they train in the long, hard days, he could see the hidden mirth in Dave’s eyes, shadowed by the rigorous commands and strict military nature they have all adapted. It’s weird, how it makes him feel. He wants more. _Needs_ more. Klaus wants him to laugh harder at his jokes, he wants more of those playful touches and brilliant smiles. But he doesn’t even _know_ if Dave feels the same way.

It’s absurd. Klaus has never had problems with picking up men before. He’s had his fair share of escapades. Usually, all it takes is a bought drink and a question. And the answer has always been yes. But with Dave, he’s not even sure if he _has_ the guts to ask. Not because he doesn’t know what to say, but because he isn’t willing to lose the flickering moments between them. Klaus is many things, and one of the things he’s especially known for is screwing things up, as he is heavily reminded by his siblings.

They’re at a Saigon bar today. Slender-bodied women dance enticingly in the swathe of red neon lights, the gleaming silver mottles reflected by the disco ball painting them with freckles of white against their skin. The music pumps unabashedly, hiding the women’s flirtatious voices but highlighting their limbs. They sway. They reach out. But Klaus knows that with him, they’ll find nothing.

He spots Dave at the bar. Dave is never too far away, he finds. Always somewhere there. Or maybe he’s just always looking, unconsciously pulling himself into his orbit. Klaus approaches him, relaxed arms folding on top of the counter. He nudges his shoulder against Dave’s, and greets him with a winning smile when he looks.

“Not feeling like dancing?” Klaus yells in the space between them, leaning in. Still, his voice sounds like a muted whisper.

“Not really my scene.” Dave says back. He lifts a beer bottle by its neck and takes a long swig. “It’s nice to have alcohol, though.”

“And music.” Klaus adds. He sways slightly where he stands to the beat of the tune, closing his eyes. Dave’s gentle laugh pierces through the bass.

“Are you any good?” Dave asks, “At dancing?”

“I’m good at drinking.” Klaus says in lieu of an answer as he flags down a bartender. Again.

“You really are.” Dave eyes him as he receives a bottle, downing half of its contents with one lift. “You should slow down. That’s your fifth one tonight.”

Klaus places the bottle down with a thunk. His movements are lazy as he leans forward, one eyebrow lifted in suspicion. “Oh yeah? Have you been watching me?”

“What if I am?” Dave says. His folded arms slide against the counter, inching closer. From afar, you could see their heads coming together, seeming to be immersed in an innocent conversation, only forced to do so because of the blaring music. But they know better.

Dave’s brown eyes glint under the mellow lights, his gaze as easy and loose as the smile curving his lips. Neither of them say anything for a moment, looking at each other under the dim atmosphere, the music shaking their bones and their feet and their heads. He’s pretty like this, out of the camouflage uniform that always forces him to hold a rigid stance, into casual wear that eases his shoulders, highlights the musculature of his arms. For once Klaus doesn’t know what to do as he finds them both inching closer.

“Klaus-”

The stolen moment is gone as two girls come up to their side and tug them by the arms, speaking in a language they didn’t understand as they bring them to the dance floor. Dave is laughing, saying something along the lines of ‘ _I can’t dance_ ’ as the girl tucks his arms on her waist, swaying to the music. Klaus doesn’t really comprehend what the girl on his arm is doing. He doesn’t think he cares. The music switches to something faster, the beats crawling up his throat. He can feel the bass in his chest. So Klaus just goes with it, closing his eyes and ignoring the prying thoughts at the back of his head, feeling the touches of the girl as it does nothing. If he can ignore the milling ghosts everyday, why can’t he ignore the punctuated feeling in his lungs when he looks at Dave?

Klaus doesn’t open his eyes until he feels a slight nudge on his shoulder. Dave is grinning at him, doing small waves with his hips, the lights that spiral with the music shadowing his face. The girl is gone and Klaus didn’t even notice.

Dave steps closer, _impossibly_ closer, and says, “You’re a great dancer!”

Klaus laughs, sounding almost sheepish even though he’s never shy. “So are you!”

“You’re only saying that to be nice.” Dave says, inching closer still. They’re in each other’s space, a restrained sort of intimacy circulating between them, the thudding music almost like a trance. But there are eyes around them. He can feel the judging stares trained towards them now, prickling against his skin like nettles.

“Let’s go somewhere else.” Klaus suggests, and Dave lifts an eyebrow.

“Already tired?” He teases. Klaus just rolls his eyes and takes his hand.

There’s a small space in front of the bathroom, separated from the open area of the rest of the club by a dense bead curtain. Very true to its time. Klaus lifts a hand to part the slim threads, while Dave laughs and walks through them, closing his eyes when they caress his face.

They’re leaning against the wall now, the cool concrete on their backs, neither of them looking at each other. But there’s a warmth between them, something inexplicably shared. Something that isn’t tangible. Klaus doesn’t know what it is. He desperately wants to know. If this- _whatever this is_ \- isn’t what Klaus is hoping for, he can just click the suitcase open and go back to his siblings. A part of him doesn’t want to do it. A part of him thinks it’s selfish to run away from something hard, or unexpected. But it would also be unfair to force himself onto Dave if he has no intention of anything.. Well. Klaus doesn’t even know what he wants.

The suitcase is his emergency exit, if he’d like to be spared from heartbreak. _If_.

“Dave?” Klaus turns to him, his voice just loud enough to be heard on top of the music.

“Yeah?” Dave does the same, but the smile slips off his lips as soon as their eyes meet. He must sense something. Klaus notices his eyes become downturned with worry. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I,” Klaus starts. He doesn’t know if he’s feeling okay. “What is this?”

“What’s what?”

“This- this _thing_.” Klaus steps closer, sharing their spaces once again, feeling as though he suddenly can’t breathe. He gestures between them. “What’s going on here?”

A look passes Dave’s sharp features, his eyebrows furrowing with contemplation. He doesn’t understand, or maybe he doesn’t know what to say. There’s a slight hint of fear in his eyes as he looks away, his smile completely gone. He shouldn’t have to think. Klaus’ heart falls in his chest.

“I don’t know.” There’s a soft hesitation to Dave’s voice, brittle and confused.

“Are we friends?” Klaus pries, his chest feeling like it’ll seize at any moment.

“I think-” Dave licks his bottom lip, and lifts his face to look at him. He winces. “I think we’re more than that?”

The heaviness in his chest disappears. He’s smiling. He’s smiling so hard he doesn’t think he can even feel it. Dave’s reaction is more slow paced, the grin curving his lips bit by bit as he comprehends what it means. Klaus reaches for his hand, and it’s there, warm and callous. He’s always there.

“I want to kiss you.” Dave says, nervously. “But I don’t want to kiss you when you’re drunk.” He dips forward as he says the last part, his breath hot against Klaus’ ear. He grins. Ever the gentleman.

Klaus leans forward, his lips just ghosting over Dave’s. There’s a playful light in his eyes, Dave thinks. The kind he flashes when he’s dancing. When he tugs at his hair or his hand or his sleeves. It’s sultry. It’s an invitation.

“I _wish_ I was drunk.” Klaus laments, taking Dave’s hands into his and guiding them towards his shoulders. This allows him to lean his body closer. The flushness of the room, the beating of the music on the soles of their feet, are all swept away. “I wish we were paid enough for me to get drunk.”

Dave laughs, tilting his head downwards as he does. His stance is more shy, fingers moving briskly about his shoulder blades but not sure where to settle them, his brown eyes skittering this way and that when Klaus corners him like this, his laughs loud but nervous. It’s his first time being with a man, Klaus realizes with certainty then. That, or he doesn’t like Klaus. Which is a doubt that has already been proved improbable. He grins inwardly, the playfulness in him doubling. At the sound of some laughter, Dave looks up.

“What’s so funny?” Dave insists, the telltale signs of a smile already blossoming on his lips.

Klaus doesn’t say anything, only continues to laugh as he sways forward, resting his forehead on Dave’s shoulder. He stays there for a few moments, enjoying the warmth of his body, the protective cradle of arms around him. A hand comes up to rest at his chin, drawing him up.

“Hello,” Dave whispers, and Klaus loves it when he gets like this. Soft. Warm. The firmness of a soldier melting away. He’s still smiling. “Do I have something on my face?”

He guides Dave’s hands, still poised on his shoulders, and clasps them together behind his neck. “Here.” Then he takes his own hands and smooths his fingers into the soft tendrils of Dave’s brunette hair, admiring how they change colours under the coarse yellow lights. Umber. Then blonde. Then gold. Like sunlight through whiskey. “Here.”

“Oh.” Dave laughs. He’s the one who brings them forehead to forehead, a pink tinge starting to appear on the highs of his cheeks. Is it because of the alcohol, or the heat? Klaus suspects neither one.

“If you want to kiss.” Klaus says, playfully swaying them with the loud beats of music roaring in the small space. “Only if you want-”

Dave surges forward. And then they’re kissing. Klaus sinks his fingers deeper into Dave’s hair, the softness of it a nice contrast to the rough desperation between them. The room becomes twice warmer now, partly because of the humidity and partly because of the fire in their bellies, the way they’re standing so close. Dave places his hands on his hips, reeling him in, deepening the kiss. There’s a buzz in Klaus’ head, something that lifts him up and drowns him, something that scarily resembles a high. He pushes it to the back of his head.

Dave breaks the kiss after a while, both of them panting for air. He’s beaming, though. Klaus has never seen a more brilliant smile. They rest their foreheads together. It’s not enough, and he thinks it never will be.

“That was my first kiss with a guy.” Dave confesses, the buzz of the kiss still apparent on the red swell of his lips and the way his chest rises and falls.

“I came to a similar conclusion.” Klaus says, nudging their noses together.

“Was it really that bad?” His eyebrows furrow, not expressing any genuine remorse with that teasing glint in his eyes.

“Not at all.” Klaus assures, tracing a finger down his chest. “You just seemed shy. And you’re cute when you’re shy.” He brings them closer still. “I should’ve let you squirm a little longer.”

Dave laughs, taking Klaus’ hand in his, and then they kiss. Again, and again, and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd love to hear your comments! and don't worry, it'll get more depressing as we go along ;)
> 
> hit me up at [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/klauzoleum)!!


	3. Chapter 3

Klaus understands that there are many things messed up with him. He can’t really give a comprehensive, itemized list, but he can damn well pick himself apart. For example, he can see the ghosts he encounters during the day in his dreams, like his consciousness is plagued on both ends. Morning. Night. It doesn’t matter. It never seemed to matter anyway.

Another example: Klaus may be under the torrential rain of gunfire, death, and the grime of war, but you can best bet that when he chooses to have nightmares, it would still be about his father. Maybe not specifically his father, but he was a catalyst to it. A factor.

He had nightmares of hollow, towering mausoleums, the cold marbled ground the only place his scrawny body could find solace. Klaus remembers the sharp juts of his knees as he drew them up to his chin, the hard press of his palms against his ears, the rushing, erratic thudding of his own heartbeat he could hear as a result. He remembered the wetness of his face, crying so hard it felt like he had no more tears to give, until he didn’t notice he was crying anymore. If he was lucky, he would only feel the cold picking against his skin, like the temperature haunted him too, and nothing else. But that wasn’t always the case.

Then, there were the faces. Klaus never remembered any of them in the mausoleum. They all blurred as they seized him, mangled arms and limbs reaching out. He didn’t let himself look at the corpses half a second more than he needed. They were terrifying. And that was all he knew about it. 

Klaus had his eyes clamped shut most of the time, his strength wasted on hoarse screams and the painful burns on his knees as he tried to skid away from them, barricading himself with curled up limbs and a tombstone against his back. Them. They were desperate voices, harrowing and gaunt, their wispy fingers clawing out to seize him. Their voices always reached past the hands he pressed against his ears. Demanding. Pleading. Like it was their right. They are always heard even though Klaus didn’t need to hear them to know what they wanted. Their wishes are always the same: to be reanimated. Reborn.   _ I want to see my children _ . A lot of them seemed to say.  _ I want to see my wife _ . Well, as a thirteen year old, Klaus just wanted to  _ not _ be in a mausoleum. But we can’t all get what we want.

Perhaps the saddest part about it all is that although Klaus couldn’t seem to feel anything but catatonic when thrown into the room of tombs, he could remember the gut-wrenching fear that seized his chest whenever his father came storming into his bedroom- right towards him. He knew what that meant, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself that it would be different this time. Klaus could still feel the aggressive bite of his father’s hand clamping down on the back of his collar, could feel his knees dragging, limbs thrashing, as he wrestled him into the mausoleum. He could practically hear his mother’s disapproving voice, directed at his father. But his grave face always showed no emotion. No fear, no doubt, but at the same time no joy. Klaus could never decide whether he envied or pitied that about him.

Usually, when the doors finally open, he wouldn’t feel like he wanted help anymore. It had been too long. The tears have dried against his skin, sticky tracks of salt on his cheeks, under his eyes. Klaus wouldn’t be shaking, or at least he thought so, because it felt as if the ghosts had sapped his energy. Fed on it. He felt so tired, so beaten, that it would seem impossible to even blink. His throat feels like fire, but he hardly noticed that anymore. Klaus’ eyes would be open as he stared down the foot of a marble tomb, the greyness of it reminding him of the pallid faces belonging to the ghosts. He feels as hollow as the mausoleum.

But still, he would jump up even though his skinny knees buckled. He greets his father with glee, or maybe just the light that came filtering in, as he pleads that he has learned his lesson. Klaus didn’t think he ever learned. What was there to learn? That there are many horrible ways to die? That even though you are dead, there is no peace? That you will always be tethered on earth, looking for people that shared Klaus’ abilities? He didn’t fear those ghosts, even though that’s what his father thought. He just didn’t want to hear them plead for something he can’t give. He didn’t want to be reminded of how much he failed everyone.

That was the sinking feeling. The true heaviness in his heart. Five could teleport, even jump through time, and because of him a lot of lives were saved. People swept aside before a cinder block would hit them, before a bullet could strike true. Allison could make anyone do her bidding. Controversial, but true. She’s saved his life countless of times. All of their lives. Then there was Diego. Need he say more? The perfect assassin, the perfect vigilante-hero. He’s even working with cops when he can. And Luther. Well, they all know how great he is. Number one. Father’s favorite, even though they never knew his blackened heart could even have a favorite.

And Ben. Even his death, his legacy is far more alive than Klaus’. The Horror, the deadliest weapon. Well respected, well feared. He is a testament to the successes of Umbrella Academy, and perhaps even the start of its downfall when he died. 

But Klaus? What has he even done for the apocalypse aside from stealing things from his dead father’s office, shooting up, and getting drunk? He threw a fire extinguisher into a time portal once, but that hardly did anything other than make his siblings yell at him. Klaus is useless, and he knows it’s all his fault. It’s the drugs. It’s the booze. He can’t reanimate anyone if he’s under the influence, and he doesn’t even know if he could bear staying sober. Too many voices. Too much death. They were all bred to become heroes, so what went wrong with him?

In this nightmare, though, he’s surprised to find the absence of his father. The setting is still somewhat familiar. He’s still in a mausoleum, dark and cold and mildewy, but there’s something different about it. Klaus doesn’t recognise this one; not the way the marble under his skin feels more like coarse concrete, not the way the tombs have golden engraved names, or how the manic whispers that encircle him seem to tie around his neck, choking him. He can hear the whispers, but can’t make out what they’re saying. The early manifestation of the corpses. There’s an oculus overhead, one circular hole that lets moonlight filter in, casting a singular spotlight on the dusty ground. He doesn’t recognise anything until he turns around. 

“ _ Klaus _ .” A familiar voice rasped, like sandpaper in his ears. The corpse’s face is shadowed by the darkness, but it unveils as soon as it steps into the beam of light. 

It’s Allison. Klaus staggers backward, slamming into a headstone. Her eyes are empty, a tissue of white encapsulating her irises. She’s limping forward, her form wispy, like she’s made out of clouds. Manicured hands come out to grab him, but he dodges shakily. Klaus notices splatters of blood on the floor and doesn’t realize where it’s coming from until he sees a gaping hole in her stomach. There’s a ear-grating, squelching sound as she moves, her lips as red as her bloodied torso, curved into a perfect smile.

“ _ Klaus _ .” She says, her voice as sweet as ever, albeit a bit coarse. Like she hasn’t drank in years. “ _ Thank god you’re here. Klaus. _ ”

“Allison.” He whispers, lips quivering. There’s a coldness to her that he can sense from a distance away. “I-I don’t understand-”

“ _ You’re here _ .” Allison chirps, coming forward to take his hands into hers. They’re warm only from the blood. Klaus whimpers as he feels the slickness of it stick onto his own fingers. “ _ You’re here to take me to Claire, of course _ .”

“ _ No _ .” A hand shoots up from behind her, pushing her aside. The unnerving smile on her face doesn’t even waver as she stumbles back. It’s Diego. His eyes are white too, but framed with the black mask he always insists on wearing. He digs a finger into Klaus’ chest, but he barely registers it as he stares at the bloody slit on his brother’s throat. “ _ You’re taking me to see Eudora _ .”

“Eudora-” Klaus tries to explain, hands shaking as he reaches out for his brother’s shoulder. He doesn’t know. And Diego will hate him. Klaus swallows once. Not like he already hated him before. “Eudora-”

“ _ You never let us see Ben _ .” Luther’s booming voice sounds behind him. Diego parts easily for his towering stature. He catches Klaus’ hand in a death grip. Klaus is staring at the space where his brother’s left arm used to be. “ _ Why didn’t you ever let us see our brother? Are you too weak? _ ”

“I don’t know how to.” Klaus stutters out. There’s a bone crushing pain spreading from his hands. He cries out.

The rest of his siblings appear. Five looms in the corner, unable to do anything but sit and stare at the walls, his legs chopped off at the knees. “ _ Dolores. _ ” He occasionally mumbles, his small body shivering. Then he looks right at Klaus, his expression downright hollow. “ _ Dolores! _ ” 

“ _ Let me see my daughter! _ ” Allison is grabbing him by the shoulders, wrenching him down to her height and shaking him. “ _ I need to see Claire! _ ”

Another hand grips his arm, pulling him away. “ _ Eudora _ .” Diego snarls, “ _ What did you do to her? _ ”

“ _ You’re useless! _ ” Luther yells, the last one to wrench him away and push him against the wall. The cold is no longer a comfort, no longer grounding. “ _ You can’t help any of us. _ ”

He stares into Luther’s empty eyes, catches the hollow gazes of the rest of his siblings. His hands are shaking more than they ever have. Of course. He understands now. He is in the Hargreeves Mausoleum. All his siblings are dead.

Klaus wrenches out of Luther’s hold, his heart hammering against his chest. But instead of a tombstone behind him, he is greeted by someone else.

“ _ You left us all to die _ .” Vanya whispers, with all the righteousness that Klaus has never seen in her before. Her small stature is pristine, not a scratch ever inflicted on her skin. But she is angry. Demanding. Why would he ever dream of her like this? “ _ You left me to die _ .”

“Vanya.” Klaus manages to say, coughing out the words past the cotton in his throat. Her stare is unforgiving. “I-”

He wakes up with a suffocating inhale, the words on the tip of his tongue dissolving. Forgotten. Klaus brings his hands up to his face, he can feel that they are trembling still, he can feel wetness on his cheeks.  _ Breathe _ . He could almost hear his mother say, the hand she would place on his back. Her kind blue eyes.  _ Relax. You’re safe _ . But this time she isn’t here, and this time he isn’t in his messy room. There’s a whimper that he can’t even recognise as his own, the only noise against the stony silence of the tent. It’s dark. And he’s so, so sick of the dark.

Klaus feels a touch on his shoulder. He shrugs it away with a sharp inhale, tired eyes not yet adjusting to the dim surroundings. He is met with Dave’s worried look, eyebrows drawn together, with the hand that Klaus had swept away hanging in mid air. He’s out of his cot, the one just a few feet away from his own, crouched down so that he could look at Klaus at eye level. 

“Hey.” Dave says, his voice completely gentle. He eases his hand between them, not quite an invitation, but there for Klaus if he needed it. “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

“Oh.” Klaus sighs. There’s a frustrated tinge to it. His chest is still beating wildly from the nightmare, still newly minted behind his eyelids. If he closes them, he could still see his siblings’ haunted faces. Betrayed. He lets out a shaky breath. “It’s just you.”

“I tried waking you up, but you wouldn’t budge.” Dave said, an edge of guilt in his voice. Like he’s to blame for it. “You were saying things in your sleep.”

Klaus takes his time to get his breathing back, pacing his inhales, extending his exhales. It works, and it doesn’t. At least, it doesn’t get rid of the images. 

“Did I wake up anyone else?” 

“You didn’t wake up anyone.” Dave says, rubbing a hand behind his neck. “I was just awake at the time.”

“And you were watching me?” Klaus leans forward to nudge his shoulder against Dave’s chest, hoping his humor would stave off the questions. He doesn’t want to stay on the topic, doesn’t like to talk about it. Hell, even his own mom doesn’t know what it is that keeps him up at night.

Dave gives him a small smile, “Are you alright?”

Klaus falls silent. There’s something different about him when it comes to Dave. With his siblings, one of his biggest features is his ability to lie through his teeth, without even batting an eye. Quite believably too, if he may add. But with Dave, it becomes so, very hard to lie. Like his tongue wouldn’t even allow the untruths to budge. It isn’t like Klaus doesn’t want to share, it’s that he’s afraid of telling the wrong people. The people who won’t listen, who won’t think about it as anything more than a weakness. A cry for attention. A part of him desperately wants to tell Dave, but what can he say? Hey, I come from the future, and my six siblings and I,  _ one who is dead and the other a fifty year old man in a thirteen year old’s body _ , all have superpowers? 

At least, he doesn’t have to tell the  _ whole _ truth. 

The little silence that passes between them makes the divot between Dave’s brows grow. He places his hand against Klaus’ shoulder, sliding it upwards so that he’s cradling his palm against the crook of his neck and his cheek. Klaus leans gratefully into the touch, a feeling of endearance filling his chest. Like steam. Like fire. It suffocates him in all the good ways. 

“I have nightmares too.” Dave says. They are looking at each other, but there’s nothing prying at all about him. Just reassuring. Just  _ there _ . His brown eyes are inky in the darkness. “About the war.”

Klaus’ lips slope downward. How come Klaus didn’t realize it sooner? He should’ve known from the shadows under Dave’s eyes, the droop in his stance when the Lieutenant looks away. Dave has always been so good to him, how come Klaus can’t be the same way?

“Talk to me about it.” Klaus finds himself saying, making space on his bed so Dave could sit on it. He pats the spot. “Only if you want to, of course.”

Dave smiles, genuinely this time, and obliges. He takes Klaus’ hands in his and plays with his fingers. Up. Down. He curls them against his palm. “Would it make you feel better?”

“Yes.” Klaus says, without thinking, and discovers it to be the truth.

Dave take a deep breath, unhurried.

He talks about the screams, first. It seems to echo between his ears, never really leaving his head. They sound identical to the cannoning bombs, the auditory equal to the gruesome sparks in the sky. They are not beautiful, he says, even when it reminds him of fireworks back home. The screams, more like cries, echo every time he pulls the trigger. Even when he misses. Even when his shot is an instant kill. It feels like a curse, he explains. The way it never leaves, playing like a broken radio, like a taunt from above for committing such criminal acts. Klaus could find some semblance of that in himself, if you replace the screams with the corpses that loom in corners.

Dave speaks of the next part with his head trained towards the ground. He whispers about how he can’t help but hear the screams of his sister in the wreckage. His mother, his cousins. Dave knows that they aren’t them, of course, but the noise inside his head doesn’t listen to certainties. It doesn’t listen to anything, really. And he’s so tired. All the time.

“Dave,” Klaus says, but he doesn’t know what else to add. It isn’t like Klaus has had many roles models teaching him how to care for somebody.

Before Dave can even look up, Klaus has his arms loosely draped around his shoulders, afraid to go any further in case this was a wrong move, pressing him into his embrace. Dave goes still, at first, then he lets out a small laugh and returns the hug. The sound stirs something in Klaus’ chest. His warm hands slowly come up Klaus’ back, and his head eases onto his shoulder, letting his weight rest on his body. 

“It was why I was awake.” Dave says, his voice small next to Klaus’ ear. “I had a nightmare, too.”

“I’m sorry.” Klaus whispers, his voice strung tight.  _ I’m sorry I didn’t notice.  _ Klaus thought, his throat feeling clogged. Then, scarily, and out of nowhere.  _ I’m sorry if you’ll be alone with this when I leave. _

“Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault.” Dave laughs, but there’s a gravelly sound to his voice. Something sad, restrained. He clears his throat and withdraws from the hug. “What about you? What do you dream about?”

“My siblings.” Klaus blurts. He doesn’t know what to say after that, all the words in his vocabulary seemingly disappearing from his head. “Them dying in the war. Because of me.” 

Well, looks like he’s replacing ‘apocalypse’ with ‘war’ for now.

“Hey.” Dave reaches out and takes Klaus’ hands. There’s a smile that he knows all too well. The kind eyes. The warmth. What did he ever do to deserve this? “You know that it won’t happen, right? They’re safe at home.” Dave leans closer, they’re only seconds apart. “You’re safe with me.”

Their lips crash against one another’s. The kiss is more muted. Secreted. A stolen moment in the dead of the night. Klaus has his hands on either sides of Dave’s face, his eyes prickling with unwelcome tears. Why this man? Years and years away from his reality? He tries to focus on Dave’s fingers sifting through his curls, a new but pleasant feeling. There’s a voice that’s telling him to stop while he can, to not make his departure any worse than it has to be. But Dave is right here. And Dave is so good. Klaus only hopes that he could feel his gratitude.

“Please stay.” Klaus’ bottom lip is quivering, his hands tight around Dave’s forearm. He whispers it into the kiss with a broken syllable. Because when he’s not thinking about Dave, the darkness comes seeping back. “Stay with me tonight.”

Dave pauses and has his mouth parted in protest, almost trying to remind him about where they are. In a tent. With a dozen other men. Klaus understands, should know that he’s foolish for even suggesting it. But when Dave searches his face, finding the fearful eyes and the tremor in his hands, he nods just as Klaus is about to take it back.

“I’ll stay.” He whispers, cupping the back of his neck. They are forehead to forehead, swaying with a cool breeze that squeezes between their tent flaps. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

So at this one night, and just this one night, Klaus concentrates on the hand playing with his curls as he falls asleep, the rising and falling of a sturdy chest against his back as he tries to echo the gentle breathing. Dave hums a lulling tune that Klaus can’t place, making his eyelids heavier as the song lilts away. He doesn’t even notice the thinness of the mattress, or the hardness of the pillow under his head. Dave grounds him to place and banishes any other thought. As silly as it may sound, Dave is a torch in the darkness, warm and sweet and fiery, warding off the bad thoughts. And Dave stays.

But the bed is still empty the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't forget to kudos and comment!! i love hearing from you!
> 
> alternatively, my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/klauzoleum)!


	4. Chapter 4

Klaus hates the medic tent. 

He’s only been there once, but the suffocating smell of dried blood, the toxicity of burnt flesh, the agonizing screams of people he barely knew; it sticks with him. It would stick with anyone. The heat is as stifling there as anywhere else in Saigon, but it felt a lot worse. It becomes an added scent, something else pressing down on them as if the weight of several dozen men’s injuries aren’t burden enough. Klaus also remembers the frenzy. There are nurses, men and women alike, scrambling here and there like fleeting bursts of white fabric. They’re yelling for tools, for medication, but often times their voices are drowned by the screams of the men they’re treating. Klaus remembers their helpless faces when someone inevitably passes, or when they have to restrain a man thrashing too violently from the pain. The whispered apologies.  _ This’ll hurt a little bit. _

Klaus hates the medic tent because it’s where death festers. It looms, and it terrifies him that he can feel each life leaving their bodies, can see it like an alarm that ticks. He’s been around death for a long time. Hell, he and his siblings have been killing people for as long as he could remember. And when they weren’t killing, they were training to do that exact thing better. Death is ruthless. Unrelenting. When they’re gone, they’re gone. But that does nothing for the shallowness in his breath every time he can hear the condemning beeps of a flatline.

It’s been a while since he’s on the field. It’s been longer since he was so close to the thick of it.

Klaus was only in the medic tent once, and it had only been for a shallow graze, forming a jagged path against the skin of his scalp after he fell over on his first day. He nicked his head on a nearby rock as he came tumbling down. It wasn’t anything serious, if anything at all it was just a bump with a scratch on it. Dave had been there-  _ of course he had been there _ \- to raise him to his feet with a firm tug on his arm, a worried look settling on his face but quickly disappearing when he sees Klaus laughing. 

“It’s not funny!” Dave says adamantly, but can’t ward off a petulant smile. “You have to be more careful.”

“Give me a break, it’s only my first day.” Klaus chirps, giving Dave a pat on his shoulder before he stumbles forward. The sun was hot on their faces, its heat a nearly-blinding fury.

“Are you okay?” Dave asks, “Do you need a medic?”

“That’s silly. It’s probably just the sun.” Klaus reasons, but ends up finding himself dragged into a tent anyway.

He didn’t expect to be back in there so soon. Especially when there’s not even a scratch on his body. But this time, going back in the tent while they’re in the apex of the war, there’s much more to see. The screams are more harrowing, the whimpers more prominent. Klaus doesn’t think he’s ever seen so much blood and injury in the same space. And that’s saying a lot for someone who has a brother called The Horror.

Klaus is moving carefully between rows and rows of occupied beds, the frames occasionally rattling, adding fury to the havoc. He has to sidestep for distressed nurses, running past him with bags of fluid or shiny looking tools Klaus has never seen before. There’s a metallic trundling that progressively gets louder, and Klaus looks back just in time to narrowly miss being run over by an IV stand, the hails of medics following shortly behind it. Klaus takes a deep breath. He can’t help but let his eyes roam across the vicinity, occasionally stopping at some certain beds before jumping to stare at others. A mewling man with his arm stubbed at the joint of his elbow, a nurse with a crestfallen expression by his side, soothing fingers smoothing over his matted hair. A young boy, hardly even twenty, heaving dry sobs that sputter out from his lips like a prayer, eyes screwed shut as a medic sews up a long laceration. 

“Klaus.” A small voice calls out, the familiarity of it usually providing him comfort, but in this place just instills an odd kind of coldness that plunges down his spine.  _ Fear _ , Klaus thinks.  _ Worry _ .

He turns around sharply to see Dave, who he came into the tent looking for in the first place, sitting up on a bed with his legs hanging over the side. There’s a guilty expression on his face, tired and pained, but mostly shadowed by the small smile that lights up his face.

“ _ Dave _ .” Klaus says. The name leaves his lips broken.

Dave has his upper arm bandaged. It’s not the thin, once-wrapped, narrow kind. The bandage spans at least four inches long, purposely tight and clinical, clamping over the hard lines of muscle. Klaus could see the small inklings of blood coming through the white gauze, red and fresh, starting as little mottles to bigger daubs.

He steps forward, hands reaching out but not knowing what to hang onto. They’re in public. What can he say? Dave doesn’t quite look at him, only gives him an acknowledging glance once Klaus sits down, shoulder to shoulder. There’s barely any space between them, but he feels so far away. Klaus runs an absent finger down the bandaged arm, the touch only a flutter. But he could still see the small furrow in between Dave’s eyebrows as he traverses downward. It hurts. And it’s his fault.

“How many stitches was it?” 

“Five?” Dave mutters, shrugging. But even that action has him flinching. “I wasn’t really paying attention. And I didn’t ask.”

“Did it hurt?” Klaus asks.

Dave doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look at him. There’s a suffocating feeling that suffuses in Klaus’ chest. A cloud of regret, of something he wished he could take back. The silence between them is insufferable, punctuated by the pandemonium that surrounds them. He takes Dave’s hand in his and finds them trembling.

He shouldn’t have allowed this to happen. Dave is not accustomed to battle. Hell, none of these men are. They are all just thrusted into the fray, with the few gruelling months that the government labels as training, and just trusted them to kill and survive. His father would have a good laugh at their boot camps. These men weren’t trained for years like Klaus and his siblings, and yet they were asked to make just as huge a sacrifice. Can Dave know what it actually means to die? To be so close to death you feel the chill of pure fear run through your bones? Does he know what it is he’s losing? Because Klaus did. Klaus does.

And what if the circumstances had been different? What if the rifle was much closer than they thought? Though Klaus may have trained with them, he is not his siblings. He’s no superhero. He has no useful powers. And it terrifies him to know that if something did happen, there would be virtually nothing he could do about it. Death is final.

And to think he wasn’t even here when they got Dave stitched up.

Klaus lets go of his hand and stands up, his heart hammering against his chest. He’s upset. He’s  _ afraid _ . How could he allow something like this to happen?

Dave’s eyebrows furrow, a look of disappointment passing through. “Klaus-”

“That was a stupid fucking thing to do.” Klaus says, both hands in the air to punctuate his words. “You could have been killed. You could have  _ died _ !”

“I know-”

“Do you really?” Klaus doesn’t know how to make his point without letting the Umbrella Academy slip. He looks up to find Dave staring at him, his lips open to form a rebuttal, but Klaus beats him to it. “If we had been any closer-”

“But we weren’t, Klaus!” Dave’s voice is starting to climb, his tone matching Klaus’ angry one. His brown hair is still matted from the sweat. “I knew what I was doing. I know-”

“You can’t know anything for sure.” Klaus thinks,  _ there’s so little you know and I’m afraid _ .

“It was  _ my _ decision to make.” Dave pointed a finger at his own chest, his brown eyes adopting a hard edge. He’s never seen him angry before. “You can’t choose that for me.”

A silence falls between them as the sentence settles. Klaus takes a good look at Dave; the shiny heroism, the bravado. He had that once, when he had something to fight for. Something that made him feel safe, like all the missions and the training and the nights at the mausoleums were worth it. Like a liquid that fills up his chest, making him impervious to anything else. Golden, rendering everything else unthinkable. He loved the world once, endlessly and naively. He believed in its people, wanted to save them.

He looks at Dave. And it doesn’t take Klaus long to find that he has it back.

“You know what  _ I _ didn’t choose?” He says, taking a step closer. “I didn’t choose to hear you scream.” Klaus raises a hand and touches the left side of his face. He could feel tears start to prickle his eyes. He tries to blink them away. “Right here. I heard you scream right next to my ear. I didn’t choose to feel your blood in my hands. Did you ever think of that?”

Klaus can almost see it now, replayed behind his eyelids like a broken cassette. They weren’t in the trenches anymore because they were trying to gain more ground on their surroundings, advancing on foot with little to no coverage if not for the overhanging tree fronds and stubby trunks. It’s a silent mission, neither one of the sides firing first, afraid of losing their spot in the night’s anonymity, playing instead in the shadows and the trembling of the winds. Klaus had his helmet fixed tight on his head, crouching as low as he could while keeping his rifle level. Dave was somewhere to his right, his presence never apparent except for the odd grounding touches here and there. Together, their unit moved. They blended in with the silhouettes of the brambles.

It was a beautiful night. You could see the stars clearly in Saigon, each glimmering burst dictating its own spot in the navy horizon. Klaus found it hard to see past the overarching branches, but when his heart hammered too quickly or he needed to calm his breath, he could count the stars and feel the knot in his lungs dissipate. But it won’t be night for long. You could see the day starting to dawn in swathes of orange and indigo, creeping up the horizon like slowly diffusing paint. It was a shame that he had to see sights like these on such horrible circumstances.

No one knew who fired the first shot. Perhaps some trigger happy, foolish kid who has his finger too close to setting the rifle off. Or, he could have actually seen something, and neglected to wait for their Lieutenant’s orders. Nevertheless, the Vietnamese soldiers didn’t wait a moment longer. They fired back, this time in thunderous tandem, and Klaus’ team reciprocated immediately. Thankfully, the element of surprise managed to get the Vietnamese soldiers isolated. There were maybe only ten of them in that small cluster, with no backup available. They finished them off easily, especially once the sunlight started to favor their side and expose the lurking figures waiting for the fight to pass.

Klaus was about to turn away, about to find Dave and whisper good cheers, until he saw a silvery flash of something in the distance. He frantically reached for his rifle, already out of his hands and slung on his back, but it was far too late for that. The Vietnamese soldier had already taken aim, and the next thing he knew, he was pushed back onto the earth, the zipping of a bullet whizzing past his ear. But not before it takes hold. It was Dave, he realized with a sinking feeling. He recognized the smell of his soap where his nose pressed against his neck, recognized the voice behind the scream that reverberated in his ear. 

Somebody else had shot down the Vietnamese soldier, so Klaus focused on Dave.  _ Dave _ . Stupid, brave, selfless Dave. What Klaus would give to turn back time and have his rifle in his hands, to be more alert. He turned him over and found a large tear on his sleeve, spanning from the start of his shoulder to the base of his elbow. The wound that opened beneath the fabric made his eyes water.

“ _ Klaus _ .” He could recall Dave stammering, could repeat in his head how he howled in pain when Klaus pressed on the wound to keep him from bleeding out. Dave’s hand is tight around his shoulder, squeezing like it kept him from going elsewhere. Klaus’ hands were shaking as he tore off his own shirt for a makeshift tourniquet, tying it around and around and around his arm like he was in a daze.

“You’re going to be fine.” Klaus repeated, like a mantra. It was all he could say as he stared down at the blood smearing his forearms, the outpour of it congealing in his hands. It was just a graze from the bullet, but it was a large, deep one. He doesn’t know if he’s saying these words for Dave or for himself. “Hey, listen to me. You’re going to be  _ fine _ .”

When they took Dave away from him, transported him back to basecamp while Klaus was instructed to continue on with the rest of the unit, all he could think about was the tremor in his fingers and the way the rifle shook when he aimed it, Dave’s blood smearing the handle. All he could think of was how he wished the injury would be enough to send Dave home.  _ Home _ . Where he would be safe.

Obviously, it wasn’t enough. Dave sat in front of him now, his eyes wide at Klaus’ words, like he couldn’t believe the incident impacted him too. Did Klaus not show it enough? How much he cares?

“And then I didn’t see you for another day.” Klaus says, his throat suddenly sandpaper dry. “I didn’t even know if you were okay.”

“I’m sorry.” Dave says. He stands up abruptly, and suddenly he has an arm around Klaus, pulling him into as tight an embrace as he could muster. Dave has a hand on the base of Klaus’ neck, fingers in his hair. Grounding. It doesn’t matter that there are other people here. Their intimacy is easily swallowed by the havoc of the medic tent.

“You can’t do that.” Klaus says, the soft hitches of his breath the only sound between them. “Why would you even do that?”

“Because,” Dave says, his voice hushed. There’s a guilt behind his voice, a certain kind of trepidation. He withdraws, holding Klaus at arm’s length. Just like before, there’s a tiredness to his eyes, but also a small smile. “Because I love you.”

For a moment, he feels as though he is unable to comprehend the words, perhaps misheard from the clamor of their surroundings. But the intent is written clearly on Dave’s face, the endearing nervousness and the telltale glimmer of hope. Klaus’ heart soars.

“ _ Dave- _ ”

“And you don’t have to say anything, I don’t expect-” 

Klaus leans in and steals a short, chaste kiss. Just a peck on his lips, not nearly fitting the sort of love he wants to convey. It’s there for a fluttering moment, and then it’s gone. Not nearly enough. But a brilliant smile blossoms on Dave’s face nonetheless, the hand he has in Klaus’ hair becoming more loose.

“I love you too.” Klaus whispers, his eyes reverent. “I love you too, you idiot.”

As Dave gives a gleeful laugh, a hand rubbing against his eyes to erase the sleep off his features, Klaus realizes that this is what being in love is. To dote even on the smallest of moments; when Dave’s eyelashes catch the golden sunlight or the stark bulbs of the makeshift medic tent, or even the lingering touches and looks they share between them under the passing glances of other soldiers, the secrecy of it keeping them at a high, yet they never truly are satisfied. And he is addicted to it. Waywardly, inwardly, he thinks,  _ there are worse things to be chained to, to be itching for.  _

After all, he could tell you about a lot of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these updates are slowly killing me bc college so drop some good stuff in the comments pretty please!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lemme just say a disclaimer,, i totally did not do my research on the vietnam war so dont hold me accountable for any historical inaccuracies u might find ok great thank you




They’re about eight months in the war now.

Klaus isn’t even sure if morale still exists. He has seen the faces of the other men in his unit, growing more weary in the passing days, more gaunt and more lifeless. The features that were once lined with fear has been replaced with something catatonic, utterly fed up with the drills, the gunshots. They are thinking, collectively, of home. 

Nights are no longer peaceful. Everyday Klaus is woken up by one man’s scream or another, each of them being haunted by the hands of war, coiling around their dreamscapes. Even at the bliss of unconsciousness they cannot run away from it. With the solace that continues to flake, their peace starting to come away at the ends, they have gone mad one way or another. The fighting spirit has gone, the urge to live another day for freedom has been replaced by survival. Pure instinct. Necessity. There is no more spirit as these men pick up a rifle and aim at the so-called enemies who have the same kind of fear festering in their hearts. They shoot to see their families. Klaus is certain that they are nearing the end, the precipice of the fight. He can feel it in his bones.

Dave has gotten quieter. 

There’s this sullen sort of presence about him lately. Every so often, mainly at night while the men sit around a makeshift hearth, he tends to stare off into space, eyes glazed by the licking flames of orange, dark brown irises becoming umber, mirroring the gentle sways of the fire. He’s still, maybe ruminating, and Klaus counts down the seconds before Dave realizes that he’s looking at him. Before he flashes a guilty, lopsided smile. In these moments, Klaus reaches past the distance between them and takes Dave’s hands into his, wrapping his fingers tightly against the other’s, keeping them intertwined. His palm is warm but his thoughts are cold. Klaus clutches his hand tighter, afraid where Dave’s mind would inevitably take him if the daze continues, hoping he would be enough to tether him here. They stay like this by the firelight.

But even in spite of these times, the old Dave never fails to shine through. He still flashes happy smiles, the kind that reveals two rows of white teeth and creases his eyes into crescents. He still cracks jokes that make Klaus’ stomach hurt, still offers fleeting touches against his cheek, his arms, his shoulders, the softness in his tone never going away. Still kind. Still beautiful. He’s just filled with a little less of these things than Klaus would like, but as Dave said in the first day they met, he’ll adjust. They’ll adjust.

They’re given a little bit of free time as another unit takes their place. The front lines are being built, the trenches being dug by blood and sweat alone. They don’t know how long it’ll be before the Vietnamese attacks, but they do know that it’ll be soon. Reports have come about them inching their way closer, and some units have been dispatched to slow their climb, but there’s only so much they can stave off before the inevitable happens. 

They’re back at a nearby bar. The atmosphere is different now, no longer dripping with raucous excitement for booze and lights and music, but just a cloth of distraction. A stagnant energy. They’re waiting, filling up their time with cheap thrills, warding off the nightmares. Klaus clutches the shot glass tightly between his fingers. He feels like it could break.

Dave lingers absently beside him, his body turned towards the skittering disco lights instead of towards the bartender like Klaus is, his gaze empty and untrained. After a moment, he straightens from his lean against the counter, and threads his way through the crowd, making his way towards a small door that leads to a canopy outside. It’s where the smokers go for a puff, but Klaus knows Dave isn’t privy to that habit. And he promised himself that he wouldn’t pester, wouldn’t pry for what’s wrong, but the nagging in his head tells him to do something.

Klaus gives him a few minutes before he follows Dave’s trajectory, ignoring the lewd touches he gets along the way; nimble fingers smoothing against his chest, slow, honey-like words from one girl or another. Klaus bats them away kindly, muttering a few apologies. 

He could hear the rain before he even steps outside. 

It’s the thunderous, unrestrained kind of rainfall, able to sound torrential if not for it being muted by the blast of music spilling from the open door. The drops are like black bullets against the night, sharp as needles as they strike the corrugated metal roof, singing symphonies of their own yet syncing with the artificial beats from indoors. Klaus steps out and feels the compression of humid air enveloping around him, the protectiveness of it like a hum. He doesn’t know how Dave could hear his footsteps between the rain and the music, but he turns around anyway.

“Hey.” Klaus says as he sidles beside him, bumping his elbow against Dave’s side. He turns to look at him, giving the same sad smile. “Are you alright?”

There’s a comfortable silence that ensues between them, clouded by the pitter pats of water against metal. Klaus could see the conflict on Dave’s face.

He gives a small, deprecating laugh as he shrugs, “It’s okay, you don’t  _ have _ to tell me-”

“Tell me a secret and I’ll tell you one of mine.” Dave says instead, reaching out to gently touch Klaus’ hand, playing with his fingers like he always does when he’s deep in thought. He looks at him intently with those brown eyes, almost jet black in the night. Klaus could almost see a reflection of himself in his irises. “If you want to.”

How does Klaus tell him that he has thousands?

“My dad used to hurt me.” Klaus finds himself saying, all in one breath. He sighs heavily like it took all of him to say it.  _ Everything you know about me is a lie _ , he wants to say instead.  _ I don’t know if you’ll forgive me _ . “Physically. Me and my other siblings.”

Dave carefully draws them closer, now shoulder to shoulder. His relaxed stance, leaning against one of the graying canopy posts as stray raindrops dampen his sleeves, shifts slightly to accommodate Klaus. Dave’s tone is soothing, unobtrusive. Klaus could feel his eyes on him even if he isn’t looking. “Used to?”

He shrugs, “He’s dead.”

“Oh,” Dave says, “I’m sorry.”

“You really shouldn’t be.” Klaus assures with a snort, leaning against Dave’s arm, the two of them finding solace on the deserted canopy. There aren’t a lot of moments where they can be alone like this. “When it gets really bad and I’m in my room alone, getting under the covers and crying my eyes out-” Klaus laughs softly, the slightest punch of sadness gutting his throat, “-my mom would come in and start to sing to me. I wouldn’t budge, though, because I was a brat like that. Still am. But she would stay there until I stopped, or until she got caught by dad.” Klaus blinks away the tears that are starting to pool in his eyes. “I don’t live with her anymore, obviously,”  _ I live in rehab centres _ , he wants to say. “But from then on I always counted on music to calm me down. The notes always feel right, even when everything else is wrong.” 

“Is that why you like dancing so much?” Dave teases softly. Klaus laughs and gives him a sharp jab with his elbow.

He lets the laughter quieten before he continues, “We all hated him, counted down the days until we could leave the house.”

“And then you went into the army.” Dave muses, the hand he has on Klaus growing to feel more like a protective touch. 

“Yeah, I guess.” Klaus replies softly, noncommittally. Dave can have his own theories. “Your turn.”

Dave takes a moment before he complies with his end of the bargain, eyes easily sliding off of Klaus again to watch the rain. 

“My dad died last week.” He says quietly, 

Klaus freezes, just computing how horrible his confession sounds when put starkly against Dave’s. He knows how much Dave values his family, how he speaks of them with a reverence in his eyes. Hell, he’s the one guy in the unit who keeps getting packages no matter where in the world they get transferred to, the letters and gifts coming as constant as rain in Vietnam. Inside, Klaus is a little jealous every time it happens, but he knows Dave deserves the love he got. He deserves all of it and more. 

“Dave.” Klaus turns so he’s facing him, gently touching his arms to offer comfort. “I’m so  _ sorry _ .”

_ That’s _ why he had been so quiet over the past week. At least it isn’t because of the war, rotting him from the inside like it has done to countless of men, Klaus thinks to himself. At least it hasn’t touched Dave, not in the way it dampens his spirit, at least. Beautiful, kind Dave. He hopes it never will.

“It’s really fine.” Dave says. “He lived a really good life. A long one, too. You can’t say that about everybody.”

_ You can’t say that about most of the people we’ve met here _ , Klaus thinks inwardly. He shakes off the thought and says instead, “You wanna get out of here?”

There’s the start of a smile starting to spread on Dave’s face as Klaus takes both of his hands and sways them in place, “And go where?”

“There’s a tattoo parlor not far from here.” Klaus proposes, “If we get there quick-”

“Klaus-” Dave says with a groan,

“If we get there quick it’ll still be empty.” He finishes, then pleads. “Please? You don’t have to get one, you can just watch me.”

A small silence falls as Dave looks at him, his eyebrows furrowed like he’s weighing his options. Finally, he lets out a sigh and says, “ _ Fine _ .”

“Fine, you’ll go?”

“Fine, I’ll get one.” Dave concedes. Klaus gives an approving cheer and guides them away.

The next thing he knows, they’re running across the brown, dampened soil, their boots making disapproving squelches and errant splatters in their haste. There’s no escape from the harsh rain, blinding their journey as Klaus looks out for the warm, telltale glow of the tattoo parlor, like a punch against the night sky. He could hear Dave laughing by his ear, the loud kind that comes from his gut. The music from the bar starts to dissipate the farther they get.

They jump on the narrow stoop of the parlor, just managed to be shaded by the overhanging roof. The simple steps aren’t enough to accommodate them both, though. Klaus trips on the nose of a step and only manages to break his fall with Dave’s arms on his hips, steadying him in place. They’re both balanced on the same landing, nearly nose to nose, laughing with the roaring rain. Dave is so close that Klaus could count the small beads of rainwater clinging onto his eyelashes.

He opens the door for them and steps inside the warm room. There are only two other soldiers there, but not anyone from their unit. 

“Know what you’re gonna get?” Klaus asks as they’re guided to their respective seats,

“I think so.” Dave says, his wet hair plastered in curls onto his forehead. “You’ll see later.”

Klaus gets something entirely predictable. He gets a single jagged line down his upper arm, ending just somewhere near his elbow. It’s a mirror design to the bullet that Dave took for him and the scar he retains because of it. If Klaus can’t take the injury away, no matter how much he wants to, he could at least commemorate it on his own body. It reminds him of what he deserved, maybe even something much worse than that, but was spared from. He’s never had the luxury of that before. Never had sacrifices done for him before Dave.

The skin around the line is red and raw and irritable, just how he remembered it feeling like after his  _ Hello _ and  _ Goodbye _ tattoos. Klaus turns around, expecting to find Dave still sat on the red chair, but finds it vacated instead. He swivels in his seat, eyes roving over the empty seats under the dim lights, and doesn’t find him anywhere in the room. Klaus hums in confusion and says his thanks to the artist before he makes his way outside.

Dave is waiting for him on the stoop, this time sitting on the steps even though they’re wet from the rain, which continues to trundle on in their slight absence. It’s fading, though. Klaus can hear the more muted beats of it, slowing down like a spiked heartbeat. He descends the short steps and takes a seat right next to Dave, startling the other from his daydream. 

“So will you tell me what you got now?” Klaus asks, but when his question is met with silence, he turns to look at Dave.

He’s staring at the black line down his arm. Of course he is. Klaus laughs sheepishly, feeling almost exposed under his scrutiny. Had it been a bad idea? Does Dave hate it? He doesn’t say anything for the longest time, brown eyes reflected with gold where it meets the yellow porch lights. His hair has dried in curls, much more manic than his usual look. Klaus looks away after a moment.

“Was it a mistake?” Klaus says, “‘Cause I can go back in there and get a cover-up, you know.”

“ _ No _ .” Dave says abruptly. He places his fingers below the line, stroking the skin that edges the tattoo. The touch is cold, but it kindles something warm in Klaus’ stomach. “No, I love it. It’s perfect.”

Klaus smiles winningly, the nagging anxiety in his chest fading. Dave returns the smile, his eyes shaped into soft crescents, before he raises his shirt.

There, edging is hipbone, is a cluster of musical notes. They’re done very minimally, just simple, purposefully sketch-like strokes that edge his hip, the redness around the tattoo bringing out the black ink. Klaus reaches out to touch it, careful to avoid the irritation, and laughs at how the skin flexes beneath his thumb as Dave breathes in. It’s simple. It’s beautiful. 

“Why the musical notes?” Klaus asks, not looking away from the tiny details.

Dave shrugs, seeming almost abashed by the question. “You said that music calms you down. Makes you feel better.” He takes Klaus’ hand from where it rests on his abdomen and folds it in his, bringing it up and holding them against the slope of his jaw. “I want to be that for you. Whenever you’re sad, or scared. Or anything.”

Klaus doesn’t really know what to say. He parts his lips, trying to string together a sentence, trying to find the words that adequately states how much he loves him. Klaus doesn’t find them. He just uses the hand Dave is holding against his cheek to guide him forward, bringing their faces as close as can be, and kisses him. He kisses him until he can’t hear the incessant thumps of the rain. He kisses him until it stops, until he finds himself astride on Dave’s lap and his hands woven into soft, brown hair. When they part, they’re both laughing breathlessly, whispering their own versions of ‘ _ I love you _ ’, the words dying fast in the stale humid air. It doesn’t matter. 

Klaus thinks, indefinitely, that they’ll be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are almost!! done!! come and yell at me at [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/klauzoleum) for more of my ramblings if your heart so desires. and if the stinky link doesn't work, my url is 'klauzoleum'. 
> 
> leave a kudos and a comment!! it keeps me alive


	6. Chapter 6

Klaus can’t tell you what the trenches feel like for a séance. There is death everywhere. There is death embedded in the soil, where every step he takes feel like he’s drenching the soles of his boots in blood. There is death in progress. He can feel the tension in each soldier’s bodies, feel the tensions unspool and snap, the breath of life spilling out of their eyes. He can feel each one of them like a sucker punch in the gut, little blips that pester him of the presence of departing souls. Greeting him, crying out to him. Then, there is the death that will come. Its potentiality sits looming above his head, coiling around his throat. It is stagnant, expectant, like an animal waiting to pounce. 

Klaus can’t tell the shadows of opposing soldiers punching through the mist apart from the ghouls that mill around the battlefield. They’re lost. Catatonic. The shell-shock of dying not quite settling with their detached soul. They’re looking at Klaus like they’re expecting him to deliver them to the afterlife. He could hear the deranged chatters of enraged Vietnamese sometimes through the rain of gunfire; not a general’s orders, but the yelling of the dead. He doesn’t need to know the language to understand that they’re begging.

The bullets fly like fireworks over his head, every whirr striking a jolting chord in his chest. He takes a deep breath, looks through the crosshair of his rifle, and fires. Klaus wants so badly to miss, wants the bullets to pierce the damp soil instead of the gut of a young man, but he’s got people to save, too. Well,  _ person _ . He already knows how this war ends, and he’s sure as hell sure that him being here now won’t change the outcome of that.

“How are you holding up?” Klaus doesn’t look away from his aim, but he knows Dave is listening. He’s right there beside him, both of them stomach-down behind three layers of sandbags, piled on top of one another like bricks. When a bullet is stopped between it, Klaus counts his lucky stars and wonders where it’ll hit next.

“I can’t see past these things.” Dave yells, his helmeted head craning to get a better angle. “I’ve only gotten three. I keep missing.”

“Yeah. Same.” Klaus says in agreement. He doesn’t tell him that he got ten. A landmine is set off somewhere in their approximate vicinity, and the debris that it injects into the air doesn’t help with any of their aims. Klaus coughs, feeling stray pieces of dirt pelting his back. 

The warm soil beneath them presses against their bellies like a one-sided hug, which is weird to think about in a place that hasn’t been very friendly. His bones ache from staying in one position for so long, but he’s careful not to move. 

If he doesn’t focus on the battlefield, the way the trigger feels as it slowly gives his finger a sore pinch, the death comes back to view. The rifle tunnels his vision, both literally and metaphorically. It’s a shame, really, that in the moments that Klaus has to focus most, the drugs can’t help him.

There’s another ear-shattering explosion, this time much larger than a landmine. He realizes that the air missiles are being deployed by the fighter pilots, swooping over their heads like birds of prey. Klaus is positioned relatively close to base, not yet inching too close to the thick of it, so he worries less about being victim of collateral damage. But if the pilots are being deployed, it must mean that the Viets are coming in quicker, in larger numbers. He doesn’t really know if they’re pushing, or the ones being pushed.

There’s a scream, and a body keels over to his left. The commander of his unit has his eyes squeezed shut, crimson blossoming at his leg, spitting out curses too quick for even Klaus to pick up.

“Sir.” Dave yells from over his shoulder, the worry heavy in his voice. He knows better than to move. “What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be up front?”

The commander, Wane or Wilson or something, opens a wrinkled eye. His voice is pained as he says, “ _ These _ are the front lines now, son.”

It comes washing over Klaus all of a sudden, like a putrid smell or a cloth of darkness. The air feels different. Denser. When he looks through his rifle, the number of corpses are the same to the number of soldiers screaming through the smog. 

The front lines, Klaus thinks. He never thought he’ll make it this far.

The commander yells at them to pick up the pace as a medic hoists him away from the fight, the terror in the boy’s eyes widening at the sight of the pandemonium surrounding them. Klaus can’t help but envy him as he struggles to carry the commander away, into the barracks where it’s safer. He’s always hated the medic tent, but the front lines are much, much worse.

Klaus centres his focus on the kills now, his hands shaking but his finger poised. One press and he has a man keeling over, screaming into the dirt. The second misses but only narrowly, the soldier jerking away at the last second. The third doesn’t let him escape. They always tell him to aim for the medics, who now have their red crosses stripped off because they might as well be targets, but Klaus never has the heart to do it. Their bulky packs become their new beacons. He watches a mousy looking child soldier pull out wads of gauze and small flutes of morphine as he tends to a man he just shot in the leg, before the boy stills and collapses too. Klaus doesn’t know who fired the shot, but at least they made the death quick.

He thinks the voices are much worse in a situation like this. Klaus can feel them taunting him, whispering the swear of more atrocities, telling him something he already knew war promised. Then, as a suspended weight does, it drops. It drops beside him. It drops just as he senses the body on his left seize. 

He feels his heart give away as he lets go of his rifle.

Klaus has forgiven death for a lot of things, has been acquainted with it all his life, meddled and even trapped amongst it. But his experiences are futile. He doesn’t know what to do now. There’s a silence from the voices, he doesn’t know if it’s caused by the ringing in his ears or if it’s the souls’ solemnity. He couldn’t care less.

“Dave?” He yells, the feeling in his stomach rooting him to the ground, pulling him under, but his thoughts scream otherwise. They tell him it can’t be true. Not him. Not Dave. Klaus topples forward, frantic hands trying to grip the straps of his vest, turning him over, pulling him close, to hold on to him. Hold on. Can his hands tether him here? “ _ Dave _ !”

The corpses circle closer, coming together to watch the spectacle.  _ We have him now _ . They seem to say, their words like mist. Appearing, disappearing. He doesn’t know if he’s imagining their sickening taunts. Klaus sees the crimson hole on his abdomen, the padded vest doing nothing to help him. He presses against the wound, his shaking hands like a fence against a dam, another hand cupping the back of his head. His curls are soft despite the gruel.  _ We have him. _

“No,  _ no _ .” Klaus is screaming, watching the blood run through his fingers. He looks at Dave now, concentrates on his warm eyes, and sees the choking fear in them. Much worse than when he got shot in his arm. Much worse than anything he’s ever seen. Dave has his lips parted, trying to force words from his tongue, but the blow from his abdomen renders him speechless. “No. No,  _ please _ .  _ No _ .”

“Hey.” Dave musters, a weak, watery smile pulling against his lips. “Hey,  _ Klaus _ -”

“You’re going to be fine.” Klaus assures, his hand pushing against the blood. Pushing again. The inevitability of it surpasses him, blinded by the pain in his eyes. His lips are trembling. “You’re okay-”

“ _ Klaus- _ ”

“You can’t go.” He pleads, pulling him close. Closer. The worst thing about being a séance is that he could feel his soul slipping. He has Dave’s face lined up with his, watching the weary pulls of death slackening his eyelids. He’s breathing hard. Fast. Klaus has a hand against his cheek, but why does he feel so far away? “ _ Please _ . You can’t leave me alone.”

“I love you.” Dave whispers, his eyes soft and kind and warm. Klaus feels the tears wetting his cheeks, wetting Dave’s tired, smiling face. “I love you so much.”

“Please.” Klaus doesn’t know who he’s talking to. The corpses are crowding.

“Will you sing me a song?” Dave requests, a shaking hand planted on Klaus’ shoulder. “What did your mother sing to you, to make you feel better?”

Klaus gives a watery laugh. He knows him. He knows it’s more to help himself than to help Dave. It wouldn’t matter either way because he wouldn’t recognise the song. It hasn’t even been created yet in the sixties. Klaus places his forehead on his, a sheen of sweat punctuating Dave’s heavy breaths. Klaus can feel the trembling in his chest, frail and weary. The hammering of a heartbeat. He closes his eyes and tries to remember.

“ _ You- _ ” Klaus chokes on the word, the melody a forgotten haze. Dave smooths his fingers over his shoulder, a sign of reassurance. He tries to imagine Grace’s lilting voice, the hand she has in his hair as she sings. He tries to remember the room that felt too small and his wet face tucked into a pillow. “ _ You who choose to lead, must follow. _ ”

Dave gives a pleased, broken laugh by his ear. He hums the echo of the tune, sounding very off, but it wrenches something open in Klaus’ chest. He laughs, too.

“ _ But if you fall, you fall alone. _ ” Klaus sees the consciousness slipping from Dave’s eyes, the way his eyelids droop, the grip on his shoulder slackening. The beating of his heart quickens. He grips the front of Dave’s vest tightly. “Dave-”

“I’m here.” Dave says, voice quiet. Nevertheless, it punches against the clamor of bullets and debris. His eyelids are half-closed, shadowing the brown of his irises, lips parted. “Go on.”

“ _ If you should stand _ ,” Klaus smooths his fingers against his cheek, red with exertion. He isn’t even singing anymore. He’s just saying the words with hitching breaths. Dave’s face feels tense under his fingertips, he can feel him gritting his teeth from the pain. “ _ Then who’s to guide you? _ ”

“I love you.” Dave mutters, his voice too soft to be heard now, more like mouthing the words into the smoke-filled air.

“ _ If I knew the way _ ,” Klaus can feel Dave’s hand traversing down his shoulder, pressing against his sleeve in odd places. He only realizes what Dave is doing when he reaches his fingers; he’s tracing the tattoo inked on his skin, the one beneath his uniform, having already memorized its jagged shape. Klaus intertwined his fingers with Dave’s. Tight. He doesn’t know what’ll happen if he lets go. “ _ I would take you home. _ ”

Dave gives a squeeze, tight and pulse-like, on Klaus’ hand. It’s there for only a fleeting moment before it’s gone. 

Klaus waits, but it stays gone.

“Dave?” Klaus yells, holding up his head, feeling the hand go limp in his grip. When he buries his face into his neck, he doesn’t feel a pulse. He doesn’t feel the warm thrum of his chest, the kindness of his eyes. “No.  _ No _ .”

It was hard hiding their affections from other soldiers, but there’s no hiding it now. They must see it spilling out of the tears that skim down Klaus’ cheeks, glistening like the ridges of cracks on his pale skin. They must see it in the haphazard, terrified shakes that he jostles on Dave’s shoulders, like he could wake him into life. Isn’t that the only thing he’s good for? To reanimate the dead? To talk to them? Then why, now, in the most important of times, is he incapable of doing anything? They must see it as Klaus lowers his head, whispering something to Dave, to himself, to death; bitter pleas and deranged begs. Is he praying? He might be. He doesn’t find it in himself to care.

The voices around him murmur something incoherent, milling around the two of them before dispersing. Their heads are hung, as they always are, and Klaus feels the dredges of Dave’s soul leave his body. He clutches his corpse tighter, trying to memorize the smell of his skin, the curling of his hair, the way the warmth hasn’t left his fingertips. It’s eerie, to be left behind. To lose your tether. Dave is leaving to a place he can’t follow, a place he doesn’t know. The mausoleums do nothing for moments like these.  Klaus is lost.

But the truth has always been there. He was always anticipating on leaving soon.  _ Soon _ , like he ever knows when. But the lazy promises of tomorrow become promises for next week, then next month, and then Klaus never gets enough. Because one day Dave is smiling and in the next he barely speaks a word, and Klaus finds himself loving him not despite those times, but because of those times. Then he’s dead like it all never happened. 

Dave is-  _ was _ his clock. Dave was the only thing that tethered him to this reality, the only thing keeping him from leaving. Not that he actually had anything that made him want to go back to the present, other than the nagging pulls of guilt and the empty space next to him where Ben used to be. Klaus knows he’s still there, though. Watching him. Maybe not making himself known because he’s giving him space. He wishes he was here now.

There’s a new aching in his heart, the grief alive and whole. No more Dave. No more secret, shared nights. No more warm laughter around the fire. No more of his voice humming against his chest. 

As Klaus looks up, staring right into the thick smog of gunfire and settling dust through smudging tears, he thinks he sees a familiar figure in the horizon. The silhouette of damp, curly hair. The slightest glimpse of kind, warm eyes. A lopsided smile. It raises a hand, and then it’s gone.

Klaus laughs, derangedly. He brings his forehead back down, settling his cheek against the crook of a pulseless neck, and bites back his sobs. His powers have always been more of a curse than a gift, always teetering him on the edge of life and death, the two coexisting. Dave’s skin still feels warm against his cheek.

“You know now, don’t you?” Klaus whispers into his hair, “You know I have to go.”

There’s a shockingly cold touch on his arm, tracing up the black line on his forearm. Klaus gasps, then shudders, like he’s been holding his breath. He grips the tattered fabric of Dave’s vest tighter in his pale fingers.

Dave was his clock. His time is up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it guys! thank you so, so much for staying until the end. i genuinely hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as i did writing it. this has got to be the longest fics i've ever completed because i'm scared of committing to something, but now it looks like i've done that successfully! i've got some more stuff for klave in the future, just not now because i'm swamped with projects (that's why the last chapter took so long!). architecture can be a bastard. i hope i'll be able to write for you guys again in the near future!
> 
> oh, and the song klaus sang to dave is an actual song! im not gonna lie i just searched up mother-son songs and sifted through them until i found a lyric i can work with. it's actually a pretty funky tune but just imagine it without the banjo-sounding things in the background and sung with grace's voice so i don't seem like an idiot for picking it. it's called 'ripple' by grateful dead.
> 
> as always, kudos and comments are so hugely appreciated! and if you really enjoy it, share this with other TUA stans because i completely abandoned a lot of my work to write all this in two weeks. find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/klauzoleum), (klauzoleum) i post TUA memes there and make a fool of myself. 
> 
> i love you guys very much, and thank you for all the support! until we meet again!


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